


Kindled

by ShannaraIsles



Series: Shannara's Avvar 'Verse [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Avvar, Avvar Cullen, Avvar!Cullen is very cocky, Blow Jobs, Bride Stealing, Clothed Foreplay, Clothed Male Naked Female, Consensual Kidnapping, Consensual Smut, F/M, Fantasizing, Fluff, Groping, I promise, Light BDSM, Lusty, Masturbation, Mating Ritual, NSFW, Neck Kissing, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Plot is creeping into my porn, Rory Allen - My OC, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Smut, Suggestive Themes, Teasing, The Porn Is Looming, The Smut Has Landed, Tied Up Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, Waterfall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-09 15:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12279315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannaraIsles/pseuds/ShannaraIsles
Summary: Avvar Cullen sees lowlander woman he wants. Extrapolate from there. ;)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kagetsukai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kagetsukai/gifts).



> Yes, I have jumped on the Avvar train. No, I don't know where it's taking me. Let's find out together! And Bioware, of course, owns it all - I'm just paddling in their pool.

The water was cool on her flushed skin, a beautiful relief after the hot march of the day. Even with the sunset hurrying on toward twilight and darkness, the summer heat was almost unbearable. She'd grown used to the sensation of sweat trickling down her back, between her breasts, over her temple, but she refused to sleep with her skin still sticky from the day's exertions. The mercenary leader who protected this regular caravan across the Ash Basin had long since given up trying to tell the healer not to leave the camp and wash. They'd taken this journey several times in the last couple of years, and not once had she come to any harm while all alone by the river. The tentative peace held between the Avvar and the villages that bordered the basin was holding; barbarians they might be, but they had honor.

Not that she wasn't aware these days of being watched. She'd never had the warrior's sense of when eyes were boring into her back, but here, in this spot, she didn't need that prickling of her senses. Not since _he_ had shown himself to her, just a few months ago.

Rory crouched by the water's edge, wetting a cloth to cool her skin as she thought back to that day. It had been right here, while she had been bathing beneath the waterfall to wash away the sweat and dirt of the road thus far, as had become her habit on this journey back and forth between villages. With her linen shift clinging to her form beneath the cascade of water from above, she had opened her eyes to look at the night sky ... and seen _him_.

An Avvar clansman, crouched on the far bank of the river, eyes the color of the finest whiskey watching her every move. Bare-chested and broad, taut golden skin firm over muscles that rippled with each breath, there was no mistaking his maleness, nor his interest in the view she had presented to him. He'd held her gaze for a long moment, watching as her breath grew swift and shallow, as her nipples tightened to aching buds beneath the transparent shift, as her skin flushed with a heat that was spurred purely by him. He _wanted_ her, made no attempt to hide the hunger in his gaze that sparked something inside her to flickering flame. She had never felt desire like that before, an instant longing to touch and be touched, to know what it was to feel him inside her. He'd risen from his crouch slowly, as though afraid she might bolt, and a knowing grin had lifted the watchfulness of his handsome face into heart-stopping beauty. He _knew_ she wanted him, with just a look. But he'd done nothing.

Without a word, he had stepped away into the shadows of the forest, and she, shaken by her sudden realization that she'd stood near naked before a man she did not know, had scrambled back to the bank and her clothes. Yet that understanding of his desire, the matching flare of her own ... it had not been left behind on the riverbank.

In darkness and shame, biting her blanket to keep herself from being heard as the rest of the camp slept, she had given in to the pulsing ache of that need. In her mind's eye, she had seen her Avvar approach her through the water, felt his hands skim the rumpled cling of linen over her skin; imagined him tearing it from her body with an animal growl to press her back against the smooth stone behind the waterfall. Her fingers had danced to bring herself to that longing high as, in the secrets of her mind, her Avvar had pinned her to the stone, sheathing himself inside her, taking what he wanted and giving what she needed. She'd had to force herself into silence as her body embraced the fantasy to toss her through a quivering climax, panting into the folds of her blanket as she curled onto her side, already trying to distance herself from what she had done. What she had longed for as she did it.

For the rest of that journey, she had endured the sweat and the dirt, afraid to step away from the reassuring presence of the merchants and guards in their party. Not afraid of him, but of herself. Afraid that if she saw him again, she might not be content to leave those thoughts as unspoken fantasy. Yet thoughts of him did not leave her mind, even as she ministered to those in Holmfrost who needed her expertise. Those whiskey-bright eyes haunted her with their knowing hunger; the sunburned chests of the men working the fields were forgotten in an instant at the recollection of taut skin made golden by the sun, marked with white and red paint. Would that paint smudge if she touched it? Would an embrace leave his markings behind on her skin? What did that gorgeous chest feel like, taste like ... what was he hiding beneath pants made of hide and fur?

The summer sun beat down on them, the zenith of the season reached as they took the road back into the basin once more, and not even her fear of her own self could keep her from needing to wash. But still she put it off, day after day ... until they reached this camp. _This_ place, where her Avvar had awakened a feeling in her she had not been looking for, simply with his open appreciation of her barely-hidden body. And Rory had swallowed her fear, reaching out to touch what might happen again, if only he was there to set her nerves alight with desire.

But he wasn't here. She couldn't feel his eyes on her; her searching glare along the far riverbank offered no hint of his form hidden in shadow. Despite herself, despite knowing that he could only ever be a nameless fantasy for a good girl from a good family, she let the disappointment course through her, tasting that bitterness on her tongue. Denied the chance to see those eyes again, that body, that primal hunger, she dragged off her boots and stockings, rising to her feet to unlace her dress and drag that from her body, too. Her sleeveless shift was already saturated with sweat - it needed the wash as much as she did. She needed to feel clean again. She'd been denying herself that sensation for too long in this inclement heat.

Closing her eyes with a forlorn sigh, she picked her braid loose, shaking her copper hair loose over her sweaty shoulders, grimacing at the sensation of the strands sticking and pulling with the motion. Why did summers have to be so hot? Winters were brutal around here, but summer ... The heat left her very susceptible to touch, sensitive to the slightest sensation, and sometimes desperate for the freedom to wander naked rather than cover herself in layers that only served to overheat her anyway.

Picking her way down into the water carefully, her shift billowing about her body, she waded toward the cascading falls, ducking under the tumble of cool relief from the summer's oppressive heat. There really was nothing like a dip under the mountain run-off to relieve the sweaty discomforts of the day, momentarily distracting her body from its almost visceral disappointment to finding herself alone here. It wasn't as though one locked gaze meant anything, surely? He'd liked what he'd seen; he'd done absolutely nothing about it. She'd liked what she'd seen, too. That was where it ended. She'd probably never see him again. That didn't mean she couldn't linger on the feeling, the fantasy ...

A faint grin curved her lips as she closed her eyes, letting the water spill through her hair, over her shoulders, soaking the linen shift to a transparent cling all over again as she recalled the hunger in those gorgeous eyes, the way his face had shifted from watchful to pleased at the way she had responded to just a look. Unbidden, her hands began to wander, smoothing her palms down over rose-tipped breasts that tingled in their wake, imagining his hands joining hers at her hips as a low moan rose from her throat. She could almost feel those strong hands brushing from her thighs to her hips, long fingers curling in a possessive grip as she leaned back against a firm, hot body that ached for her ...

The shock that rippled through her was audible as those supposedly imaginary hands abandoned the course of her own to pull her back against a chest that was decidedly _not_ imaginary. The yell died at her lips as one of those hands closed over her mouth, hot breath against her ear shushing her almost tenderly. Her eyes swiveled, fear stronger than desire, and to her surprise, her captor let her head turn toward him. Whiskey-bright eyes clouded with desire met hers from bare inches away. _Him._

All thought of screaming for help fled her mind as soft lips attacked her throat, her eyes falling closed once again as the breath left her body in a rush. Her fingers wrapped about his wrist as the hands she had imagined began to explore her body, far more confident than she had dared to dream. There was no hesitation in the palm that splayed over the soft flatness between her hips, pulling her back until she felt the eager press of his wanting nudge at the cleft between her buttocks; no sense of reluctance in the callused fingers that trailed down from her mouth, tracing a line along the beating pulse in her neck to cup one breast through the chilled creases of her shift. She arched into his touch, a mindless response to the reality of a fantasy that had haunted her mind for too many nights already, only too eager to rock her hips and tease him in return as finger and thumb found the prize of an aching nipple through sodden linen. It was too much and not enough, and yet not one word was spoken as he ravished her with barely a touch, stoking the fire he had lit with just a look weeks before.

His hand fell from her breast, joining the other at her hips, pushing, pulling, to spin her about where she stood until she faced him, her barbarian fantasy, pressed back against the smooth stone of the falls, hidden from any casual glance from the shore. Autumn-touched gold fell in wet curls across his brow as he leaned over her, one hand at her hip, the other laid firm against the stone above her head. Her own fingers found purchase against that solid chest, the paint he wore streaked and running, staining her hands as she gazed into possessive eyes that still bore his hunger proudly. She felt his breath touch her lips, her eyes falling close in anticipation of a kiss she knew she shouldn't be inviting ...

"Cullen."

She blinked, her eyes snapping open once more to find him a mere breath away, studying her as he spoke that single word. The confusion must have shown, for he grinned that knowing grin, his hand leaving her hip to touch his own chest.

"Cullen," he repeated, his voice low with what she hoped was the same longing she felt.

"Is ... is that your name?" she asked in a breathless whisper, her fingers tapping his chest as she repeated the unfamiliar word. "Cullen?"

He nodded, a flicker of frustration in his whiskey gaze at their lack of a shared tongue. "Cullen," he confirmed, his hand turning to gently tap a single finger against her breastbone, one brow rising in a clear question.

"My name?" she asked, despite knowing he didn't understand her words. Avvar spoke their own tongue, though some learned to communicate with the wider world, yet it seemed this glorious barbarian didn't understand the Common tongue spoken by those who did not share their culture. "Me, I'm ... Rory." Her fingers covered his, pressing his palm between her breasts. "Rory."

The corner of his mouth curled upward with satisfaction, that hand sliding up from the crumple of her shift to cup her jaw, drawing his thumb over her lips as he leaned into her once more. "Rory," he breathed in answer, the mere scent of him so close intoxicating beyond anything she had felt before.

Grey eyes fell closed once more, wanting the kiss he teased her with, her body arching from the rock at her back to invite it ... yet it did not come. She felt the heat of his body leave hers, snapping her gaze about in time to see him dive from the waterfall and swim to the far shore, cutting through the water with purpose. She watched with haunted, hungry eyes as he rose from the water, the trickles teasing her as they disappeared beneath the wrap of hide about his hips. He paused on that bank, looking back at her with the same hunger that had woken her to him in the first place. And he left, melting into the trees, happy, it seemed, to abandon a willing partner in favor of prolonging the anticipation.

Rory sagged back against the rock, still hidden from the bank on this side of the river. She could still feel his lips on her neck, the brush of his tongue against her skin, the pinch and pull of finger and thumb on a nub grown sensitive in the chill. What was he playing at? What was she doing? It was utter madness to court the dangers of the Avvar, especially within their own lands, and yet ... she couldn't deny she wanted more than the teasing taste he had given her. Would he be here when she passed this way again?

Despite all common sense, she hoped so. Perhaps next time she would be ready to give him a taste of his own medicine.


	2. Chapter 2

The desperate heat of summer’s heart was finally beginning to fade when next Rory visited the waterfall. She couldn’t help the thrilling anticipation that rippled through her as their party came closer to their habitual camp, that sensation driven to an ache as the guards teased the new merchants on the route about the vicious Avvar barbarians who would steal away their wives and daughters at a moment’s notice. It took everything she had not to laugh too loudly at these exaggerated tales - those who lived in these parts knew the Avvar were more likely to steal cattle or grain than women, disinclined to invite the wrath of the arling down upon them.

But … _she_ had been stolen, hadn’t she? Perhaps not literally, but her Avvar - _Cullen_ , she thought his name with a secret smile - had stolen her will with just a look, stolen her modesty with nothing more than his open desire for her. No one had ever looked at her the way he had, with shameless wanting. Oh, there were men in the villages who looked at her with desire, but it always came with an edge of furtive uncertainty, of a leering sense that they desired the _right_ to possess her. _He_ had looked at her with the desire to kindle her, to coax her, to draw her into the same longing he felt and share it with her until the stars grew cold. He didn’t see her as property to be claimed, she was sure of it; he saw in her a prize to be earned and won, to be invited rather than ordered. It was the most liberating feeling she had ever encountered, and yet she knew she shouldn’t be feeling it. He was Avvar. He was not one of them.

Logic dictated that she should stay with the camp, that she shouldn’t invite more secret trysts with a barbarian far from her protectors’ eyes and swords. Tradition dictated that she should let herself be courted by one of the slope-eyed men of the villages, who would wed her, bed her, and fill her belly; who would likely forbid her from ever making this journey again, even at times of great need. She rebelled against logic and tradition - had done, long before her dreams were haunted by strong, gentle hands and intoxicating eyes. She wanted more from her life than to be a mere wife and mother. She was a healer, and a good one; she wanted to be recognized for that skill, allowed to practice it for as long as she was able, to be permitted pride in her work and the sense of accomplishment that came when disease and injury faded away because of her interception. The traditions of the arling she called home didn’t really allow for that. No wonder she was just a little fixated on an Avvar who had approached her as an equal, even without knowing anything about her.

Crouching by the water, she let her fingertips trail through the refreshing chill, habit prompting her to wet a cloth and cool her face and neck as the hopeful tension rippled through her form. Letting her eyes close, she tried to concentrate on the cloth as trickles of water escaped to forge a path beneath the neck of her dress … only for her mind to conjure the image of Cullen’s tongue following that path, laving her heated skin with open-mouthed kisses until she begged for more. A splash from the water jerked her out of her imaginings, her head turning to study the sparkling surface of the flowing river for any sign she was not alone, be it friend or hostile animal. A few bubbles broke from the surface a little way downstream, but apart from that … nothing. _Probably a fish._

Sighing in the heat, she settled back onto her rear, drawing her knees up to unlace her boots. She could feel how hot her skin was, knowing that she likely had a fresh crop of freckles after the exposure to the sun today, as well as a touch of burn to turn her face rosy beneath them. She had elfroot lotion in her belt pouch - she was going to have to use it for once. Boots off, she drew her dress up to her thighs, wriggling forward to set her legs in the running water to the knee, and pulled open the pouch, settling herself to smearing the lotion over her face and neck. It was blissful relief to feel the tightness of her skin start to relax, the familiar comfort of the elfroot scent filling her nostrils as she tilted her head back.

The quality of the sound of water running changed in the same moment she felt fingers curl about her calves. Her head snapped up … and there he was. Cullen, her Avvar barbarian, rising from the water between her legs to loom over her, confident hands stroking from knees to thighs, dipping beneath the hang of her dress and shift to curl his palms to the roundness of her naked behind. He pulled, and she slithered toward him, her skirt hitched to her hips with the motion, hands landing firm against the smooth heat of his chest as her breath whistled from her lungs. Strong fingers kneaded the softness of her backside as he lowered his head, whiskey-bright gaze meeting hers with the hunger she had not forgotten.

“Rory.”

She felt his breath on her lips, transfixed by the sheer certainty in him that she wanted his touch as much as he wanted to give it. And he was right … she _wanted_ this. She wanted _him_. The smooth grit of paint beneath her palms took nothing from the thrill of his allowing her to touch him this time, her lips lifting to try and catch his as her hands skimmed over the broad planes of his torso. He drew his head back from her wishing lips, his mouth curved in a grin that at once mocked and encouraged her. _You can touch, but I will decide when you taste,_ he seemed to be telling her, sending a flare of electrifying disappointment and eager desire through her body.

 _“Cullen,”_ she whined at this denial, only to earn herself a low laugh that vibrated into her as he pressed himself to the cradle of her hips, longing flesh separated only by the sodden cling of his hide pants.

The warm hands that delved beneath her skirt retreated as he pulled himself back, dragging callused fingertips along the sensitive swathe of her thighs as she whimpered at the loss of him so close. Whiskey-bright eyes turned slowly dark as he took in the heave of her chest, the gathering of cloth about her hips, the naked line of her legs. She could _feel_ that gaze raking over her, daring to reach toward him only to have her hands caught in a gentle, unequivocal grasp. As she watched, enthralled, he drew her hands up to his face, pouring slow, open-mouthed kisses over her knuckles, into her palms, flicking his tongue against the beating pulse in her wrists.

“Oh … Cullen, _please_ …” There it was. She was begging, silenced swiftly by the press of a single finger against her lips. He - neither of them - could afford for her companions on the road to overhear anything that passed here. This should not end in blood, for either of them.

“Show me.”

It wasn’t a request. Nor was it a command. Yet she heard it resound within her, the low cadence of his voice rough with desire stoking the flame he had urged within her once more.

“You … you speak Common?” The question was more of a gasp than true words … he understood her? How? She’d been so certain they did not share more than desire, yet the words were in her own tongue, his accent strong but clear.

His head tilted, a feral glint touching that intoxicating stare as she spoke. There was no comprehension in his eyes at her words, but an sense of impatience at the uncertainty she exuded. His hands rose once more, abandoning her own to grip her hips, flattening palms to press upward, smoothing over the rumpled layers of dress and shift to cup the tender swell of her breasts. Thumbs found the crowning nubs that strained beneath the fabric that covered her, sweeping back and forth as she bit down a strangled moan at the unthinking possession in his touch.

“Show me,” he breathed once more, the sway of his body meeting hers to tease her again with a kiss that never came. “Show me Rory.”

“You-you want … _oh …”_

The wet heat of his mouth had found her pulse once more, suckling, biting, laving her skin with the mark of his tongue, hands reluctantly dragging from her breasts to tear at the laces at the small of her back, forcing the enclosing garment to loosen enough that he could see what had not been so clear in all the times he had watched her bathing. His eagerness drew a little of her sense back to her - she couldn’t go back to the camp with her dress torn.

“Easy … Cullen, no.”

He stilled instantly, raising his head to meet her eyes with sudden uncertainty of his own. So he knew the word _no_ , well enough to understand it, to respect the meaning behind it. To look hurt and disappointed as she laid her hands against his chest, gently pushing him back from her. A soft smile curved her mouth as she reached up to him, tracing her fingertips over the scar that adorned his lip.

“Gently,” she told him, her voice unconsciously inviting as she took matters into her own hands.

The uncertain glimmer of disappointment faded as she arched her back, reaching behind to carefully undo the laces holding her dress firm about her form, his eyes warming above a creeping grin that lit his handsome face with satisfaction as her fingers gathered the hem of both shift and dress to pull them up over her head. The fabric bunched about her elbows, obscuring her face, and she heard him laugh as she struggled, fingers groping to find a better grip on the cloth as his hand closed over both her own, holding her in place, blinded by her own clothing, unable to do anything but feel as he pressed himself between her thighs once more. Exposed and trapped, she whimpered, the sound lost in a longing gasp as that sinful mouth pressed with scorching purpose to the valley between her breasts. Yet that was all; a moment later, he had dragged the concealing veil of linen from her face and arms, tossing it aside to capture her hands and press her back until she lay against the prickle of grass, pinned down as much by the admiring greed of his lusty gaze as by the firm body that crawled from the water to hover over hers.

Droplets of that chilled mountain run-off dripped onto her pale skin, making her jump and squirm beneath him as he leaned over her. She could feel another plea trying to escape her lips, clamping down on the words before they could make themselves known, willing herself to savor every nuance of his eyes, his heat, his hunger. And some part of her that no arling man would ever countenance rose to meet his commands with her own.

“Show _me_ ,” she heard herself say, her voice almost hoarse with the need for quiet. “Show me Cullen.”

He paused, gorgeous eyes narrowing with playful intensity as that grin broadened his mouth once again. His face lowered to hers, the tip of his nose circling the rounded nub that was hers as he breathed his teasing reply from the depths of that grin.

“No. This moon, _I_ see.”

“But -”

He swallowed her objections in a kiss that set her jangling nerves aflame, strong hands deserting her palms to slide beneath her back, drawing her up from the grass and into his arms. She went easily, unable to even consider struggling, her fingers eager to curl into his hair and grip, to pour over the defined muscle of his shoulders, his back, her willingness making her as much an accomplice to her own seduction as he was her master. Mouths clashed in an ages-old battle for dominance neither could win, and neither would lose. Long legs wrapped about his hide-clad hips as he pulled her into him, soft breasts crushed tenderly to a chest that heaved with each breath; each groan, each wanting, _needing_ sound that rumbled from his throat serving to cloud her thinking mind until all that was left was the woman wanting the man who wanted her.

Then he was moving, turning, tipping … and the chilled mountain stream closed in around her as he dropped them both into the flow of the water, letting her go the moment she flailed in shock at the unexpected cold on her skin. She burst through the surface, gasping for air to replace the breath stolen from her lungs, only to find him laughing at her response.

“You … arse!”

She lunged at him, one fist bunched, only to be gathered to hic chest as his lips caressed hers once more. The fight, the indignation, melted out of her at that startlingly gentle touch, her smaller frame swaying into his as his palm found a place on the first curve of her bottom. His fingers contracted with a firm squeeze, wrenching a squeak from her lips as she broke that kiss with breathless expectation.

Cullen’s grin was in danger of eating his own nose as he drummed his fingers against the soft contour of her rear end. “ _You_ arse,” he corrected her, nipping at her lower lip. “Rory is soft like … like …” He grimaced, groping for the right word in her tongue, something he clearly hadn’t been learning for very long. “Like bear.”

She stared up at him, a slow laugh bubbling up from her chest. “Like a _bear?”_ she repeated incredulously, laughter spilling bright from her lips as she sagged against him, her amusement only spurred on by the confusion of consternation and pleasure in his expression. “Oh, Cullen … you really need to learn a little more before you try giving me compliments.”

She reached up to stroke his cheek, rubbing away the last of the paint that clung to his skin, tracing her thumb over the angle of his jaw as his frown smoothed away in the face of her smile. He might not understand her words, but he understood her tone. She wasn’t angry; she was laughing, not _at_ him, but at the clumsiness of his attempt to be suave in a language he did not know. In answer, the fingertips of his resting hand traced a line from her hip to her breast, marveling at the contrast of pale and freckled softness to the golden tan of his firmer form. Her breath caught in her throat as his palm enveloped the pliable swell, his eyes watching her face as she swayed into him, biting her lip to hold down a yearning groan at his touch. A touch that soon began to explore, stroking, smoothing, pinching, creeping ever lower as his mouth descended to her neck once more.

She clung to him in the cool lap of water, fingers tight in his hair, at his shoulder, back arched with unconscious invitation as those curious, confident fingers brushed through the curls that crowned the secrets hidden between her thighs. Her legs parted for him without the need for conscious thought, welcoming the exhilarating intrusion of cool water against the throbbing fire that reached for the gentle trail of his fingers. And he _was_ gentle, despite her soft moans for more, despite the impatient greed he felt to consume every part of her. Those fingers, so strong and ardent, seemed to barely touch her, trailing soft circles from the budding ache that drew shuddering gasps from her lips, to the tender heat grown slick with her own fervent desire. She felt herself part again, deeper, more intimate, at the delicate press of one of those fingers, feeling the unmistakable quiver as his palm ground with soothing promise to the throbbing bud that grew into his touch. Her head fell back, exposing more of her throat to his questing mouth, earning her a low moan of approval as his lips closed over the thrusting peak of her breast.

He _knew_ how to touch her, how to coax her, even without more than a handful of words spoken between them. He could read her sighs, her moans, the way her hands gripped to his hair and flesh. For the briefest moment, she felt a pang of jealousy against every woman that had taught him so much about this kind of intimacy, before he upped the stakes once more. Teeth she had seen bared in that cocky grin scraped with delicate care over the rosy jut of a tingling nipple; the hand at her rear squeezed her tighter to him; a second finger joined the first to part her folds and ripple within as the heel of his hand found just the right rhythm to catapult her from mere writhing desire to the white-heat of ecstasy. Her body twanged, taut with shuddering, spasming pleasure; her head fell forward to his shoulder, mouth opening to bite down on his flesh to muffle her scream of sheer, uninhibited euphoria. He teased her past breaking point, his growl a satisfied rumble of delight in how she responded to him, raising his head to gather her close as her teeth finally released him, as he withdrew the delicious torment of his fingers from her pulsing core only to wait until her vision cleared before slowly, luxuriantly, licking every last drop of her from his own hand.

Yet when her palm traced its way down the plane of his chest, over the gorgeous prominence of muscles made for tasting, seeking out his most vulnerable desire, he stopped her, catching her wrist to pull her hand up and press a heated kiss to her palm.

“This moon, I see, I touch,” he told her, the words broken in his heavily accented Common but no less comprehensible for that. “One moon, Rory see, touch.”

She whimpered, inwardly cursing the pathetic sound that expressed her disappointment far better than any words could have. _One moon? Does he mean … oh._ Her frustration showed on her face as she shook her head. “Two moons,” she told him, knowing she wouldn’t be back this way until autumn now, holding up two fingers to make herself clear. “Two moons, Rory see.”

The same frustration flickered in his gaze, and suddenly she was crushed to his chest once more, his mouth ravishing hers, tasting her, marking her, claiming her as his for all the time that would pass before they had this time again. She trembled in his arms, feeling that claim like a brand on her soul. Could she wait that long? Could she stand being haunted by the memory of this brief interlude for two months before another might come to pass? She knew the answer, however shameful others might find it. Yes, she could wait; she _would_ wait. He was worth waiting for, even if this was all she would ever know of him.

Abruptly he stiffened, his head snapping up, breaking the kiss that had stolen her breath and her will to tilt his head toward the shore. Rory stilled in his arms, her senses alert for anything that might tell her what he had heard. But though she heard nothing, she did not doubt he had sensed something beyond her ability to pinpoint. His arms slid from around her as he looked back to the pale redhead who would have done anything he asked in that moment.

“Two moons,” he promised, his scarred lip lifting in a slow smirk as he flicked a gentle finger over the flushed stiffness of her nipple in farewell, wading back to the far bank.

Gone was his war paint, the white and blue that marked him as one of his tribe in battle. In its place lay the dark mark of her teeth, a bruise that branded him hers, if only for this short time. As he melted into the trees, an invisible shadow in the gathering dusk, Rory sank down until her shoulders were below the water, hearing now the footsteps of one of her own companions approaching through the trees on this bank.

 _Two months,_ she told herself. _Two months, and Rory will do what **she** wants to do. It’s about time he came undone around me, too._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify - dialogue in _italics_ is spoken in Avvar; otherwise, they're speaking Common. ;)

Autumn was here, sweeping away the heat of the summer, bearing with it the fresh tang of snow not yet fallen and leaves ripe to fly. Autumn was here … and so was she.

Two months at home, tending to normal everyday concerns. Two months to work her way into the good graces of the local hunters who had some contact with the Avvar, in the hope of learning a little of the language Cullen called his own. Two months to try and hide from her best friend that she was eager to be on the road again. Ria was certain she was involved in a secret love affair with the Arl or someone equally important, because why else would Rory be so eager to travel again? But trysts with an Avvar barbarian were not something she could tell even her closest friend. At best, it would result in her being more closely watched; at worst, she could be sent away to another arling within the Bannorn, just to keep her away from the pagans in the mountains. Was there even any future to these wonderful moments on the road? She didn’t know. Hope was a fragile thing, something she didn’t dare to entertain. But perhaps she wouldn’t have to entertain it. Perhaps he wouldn’t be here this time. 

Whether she was hoping for disappointment or not, it did not come. He _was_ there as she stepped out from the trees, his only concession to the gathering chill of the air a bear fur mantle slung haphazardly over his shoulders. Not only there, but on this side of the river, _waiting_ for her to arrive. She didn’t need to sense his impatience; her own was a rival that twanged in the air as he pushed from his lean against the whispering oak, his handsome face splitting into a grin that seemed truly pleased to see her. No sooner had her lips curved to match that smile than he was moving toward her, catching her close about the waist to smother her in a kiss she had been longing for since they had parted last. She didn’t surrender, rising to him with a soft moan caught silent in her throat as her fingers gripped his hair, the fur at his shoulders, biting at his lip when he drew back to keep him close. She felt his low chuckle at her insistence, swallowing his breath as his lips returned to hers, pressed close by the roam of his hands to her back and over the wide flare of her hip. She could feel how much he wanted her, and this time, she was not going to be denied.

 _“Stop,”_ she mumbled against his lips, forcing the word to come in his tongue as she pressed against his chest, needing a little distance between them. The surprise in his amber-bright eyes was glorious to behold - not only surprise, but pleasure at hearing his tongue from her lips. _“I look. You show. Now.”_

Cullen’s warm grin broke into a low, soft laugh, his hot mouth claiming hers once again despite her words, yet only for a moment. “You speak mine tongue?” he asked, his Common now not so broken as it had been before. “I learn for you. You learn, too?”

“You’re learning Common … for me?” Her plan forgotten momentarily, Rory stared up at him, gray eyes wide with tender amazement.

His hand slid from her back, ghosting to the swell of her breast as he lifted his touch to curl his palm to her jaw. “I _want_ you,” he told her, each word burning with an intensity she had never heard from anyone.

This wasn’t just lust; his desire spanned more than a wish to be buried inside her. He … he wanted her? _All_ of her, not just … not just what they could snatch together here? That denied hope flickered to life in her breast, her fingers flexing against the firm span of his chest as she gazed into the whiskey-lit eyes that had haunted her for months. This was madness. He could have had her at any point in the past months, and yet that seemed too simple to fill his desire. He wanted her. And, despite all the warnings of her lifetime, _she_ wanted _him_.

 _“Show me,”_ she repeated herself, trying to wrap her tongue around alien syllables as her fingers trailed down over the painted lines of his bare chest, refusing to be denied this time. _“I see, this moon.”_

His smile was feral with pleasure at her demand, yet he did not move until her hand skimmed over the straining hide between them, lithe digits stroking the length of a secret he had not yet shared with her. As one hand undid the laces that kept him from her, as the other traced the length and width of him, never once letting her eyes leave his hungry gaze, he stifled a low growl, his beautiful body tensing under her touch with delicious anticipation. His hands found a home at her neck, at her hip, one fighting not to clench, the other leaving bruises she would savor when they were parted.

“Take what you want,” he growled, leaning close to warm her mouth with his breath.

“I want _you_ ,” she breathed in answer, lunging forward to claim his lips with her own in a fierce kiss as her hand slipped beneath the loosened cling of his pants to find the enticing heat of his desire.

She swallowed his moan as he thrust into her hand, filling her grasp with himself, his own grip abandoning her body to push his pants down from his hips, offering her room to enjoy what he had not allowed her to so much as see before this day. Her lips curved in a satisfied grin against his as she felt him reveal himself to her, the hand on his chest pushing him back against the tree that loomed behind him. The kiss broke, offering her a glimpse of his bright eyes, his wide smile, the invitation that seeped from every pore for her to do as she wished with him. No lowlander man would let her take charge in this way, surely; yet this Avvar man not only invited it, but welcomed it, letting her see him vulnerable to the elements, to her hands, drawing her close as her lips teased from his mouth to the lickable scar at his lip, over the roughness of stubble to find the pulse in his throat that jumped beneath the wicked play of her hands between them.

His head fell back against the rough bark of the tree, raising his wrist to bite down on the leather bracer, muffling his tender groan as she gave her full attention to the golden skin she had longed to touch for far too long. As fingers traced beneath the belt, lips teased between the swirling marks of paint that adorned his muscular form, teeth nipping as she glanced up to find those intoxicating eyes grown dark as he watched her progress, at the mercy of mouth and hands that had wanted this freedom for too long. Something in that dark gaze called to her, urging her to make this memorable for him, something he could recall on the long nights that were coming when they would undoubtedly think of each other. She wanted him to remember this, to remember her; she wanted to destroy other women for him as he had destroyed other men for her. No one compared to him; yet she hardly knew him at all.

Lips and tongue laved that gorgeous skin, tracing the very edge of the designs painted over his chest, his abdomen, his fingers wrapping her braid about his palm as she sank to her knees, tracing the deliciously defined V that marked the path to her ultimate destination. Her own hands were not idle, stroking, tracing, touching, wanting to mark him as hers with just the rousing caress of her fingers, long before her mouth found the prize waiting for her. She was no blushing virgin, but even she had to take a moment to admire the naked beauty of the man before her.

Clad only in his mantle, his most precious part held in her caressing palm, he was at once the epitome of calm, strong manhood, and the perfect vision of unfettered lust. His grip tightened about her braid as her breath teased against his ardent flesh, unspoken direction declared and strangled in a guttural moan as the wet heat of her mouth found a home about him. Her eyes on his, she watched him as he watched her, thrilling to the dark pride he showed in himself; in the fervent hunger for every sweep of her tongue, every press of her lips; in the trust he gave her to be so defenseless to her every whim. This couldn’t be simple lust, surely. Why would he allow her to turn the tables on him, to give him the pleasure he had given her in shared moments before, if he did not want more than a hasty tryst in the shadows of the riverbank?

Yet he did not stop her, did not seek to force anything, only muffling the sound of his pleasure as his limbs shook in the inexorable rise to a peak he’d never shown her before this moment. And what a rise it was … slow, then swift, his only moment of dominance to hold her in place as he spilled himself into her warm wetness of her mouth as he fought to stifle a growl of utter bliss that reverberated through her where she knelt at his feet. She fought not to pull away from that rush of his seed, prepared to taste him on her tongue, even if she couldn’t quite face swallowing down the gift he’d given her. The real gift was in the quivering of his limbs, the breathless rasp of his voice as he moaned her name in the grip of that release. The barbarian warrior brought low by a mere woman, willingly giving himself to her as she had given herself to him in moons already passed.

She did not leave him abruptly, either, pausing only to empty her mouth before rising to her feet once again, tucking his pants about his hips as her lips brushed over the gasping heave of his chest, just barely retracing the passage she had taken to bring him to completion. The strong grip on her braid pulled her close, his mouth covering hers, devouring, ravishing, taking a kiss to taste himself on her tongue and know she had given him something under the Lady’s eyes that most lowlander men would demand behind closed doors. His fingers let her braid fall, his touch softening to trace her neck, her shoulders, easing down to cup the swell of her rear as he pulled her tight to himself, welcoming the wrap of her arms about him beneath the hang of his mantle.

“Not enough,” he whispered against her lips, his mouth teasing its way to the sensitive curve of her ear as he clung to her. “Never enough. Come to me, Rory.”

“I have to go,” she murmured back to him, her regret biting in her tone though she made no motion to leave his embrace. She felt safe here; wanted in a way her life in the villages had never given her. He _wanted_ her, all of her … but they were worlds apart.

Cullen’s arms tightened about her as he raised his head, brushing his brow to hers as he looked into her eyes, whiskey-lit eyes fierce in his certainty. “I will come for you,” he promised her. “My Thane to your thane. You will come to me.”

“I wish I could,” she breathed, torn between duty to her own people and longing to be his. “I am not Avvar. _Not Avvar,”_ she repeated in his own tongue, struggling to make what little she knew work for her. _“Not … not hunter. I am prey.”_

His fingers stroked against her cheek, lips ghosting a tender promise to the crown of her cheek. “Never hunted,” he told her, that intensity back in his eyes, in his voice. “You are mine. I do not care.”

“But … they would never allow it,” Rory protested, frightened still of what might happen if she were to give into this urge to run away with her barbarian lover. “They would come for me.”

“I would kill them.”

He did not need to sense that he had said something wrong. She stiffened, pulling back from him as far as he would allow, shocked that he would hold her in his arms and promise passion in the same breath as swearing death on her people who might object.

“They are my people,” she reminded him, brows lowering in a troubled frown. “My … _my kin. No kill.”_

Despite her agitated concern, he smiled to hear her trying to speak words he knew, his touch softening to stroke fingertips over her lips. “My Thane to your thane,” he repeated patiently, willing her to understand. “I will come for you. You will come with me. They will not follow.”

What did that mean? That his Thane would speak to the arl about their illicit relationship? That, somehow, his Thane could convince the arl to allow a woman of his arling to join the Avvar? She didn’t understand; didn’t see how it could possibly work. Yet … he was so _sure_.

“If … if no one is hurt,” she said carefully, hoping he knew enough to understand what she was saying, “I will come with you.”

Cullen’s smile suddenly blossomed; a younger, warmer expression she had not believed was possible on the face of a man who had clearly known death all his life. There was hope in his beautiful eyes as he held her gaze, hope she could feel kindled in her chest as he dipped his head to kiss her once more - one last kiss before she had to return to the camp.

“My Rory,” he murmured to her, filling her senses with everything he was in that last embrace. _“Mitt hjärta.”_

She had no chance to ask what that meant, hearing her name called from the camp. She had been gone too long in this growing cold for the guards not to worry. In summer, she could linger alone; as winter came on through the gusts of autumn, they did not like to have her out of their sight for too long. Cullen caught her hand as she made to pull away, pressing an open-mouth kiss to her palm.

“When do you return?” he asked, tender passion sharp in his gaze.

“One month,” she answered swiftly, glancing worriedly toward the path from the camp. She didn’t want to risk him being found with her. _“One moon, I be here.”_

_“One moon, mitt hjärta.”_

He let her go then, fastening the lacings on his pants as she hurried away, calling back to the guard who had sent his voice seeking for the wayward healer. A last glance back offered her the barest glimpse of him, already on the other side of the river, melting into the shadows beneath the trees. _Mitt hjärta_ … what did that mean? His Thane to her thane? This was far more than a simple connection of lust far from the pretense of civilization. She felt a faint smile quirk her lips at the glowing hope kindled in her heart. This could be the beginning of a whole new adventure.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note - again, Avvar language spoken is in _italics_ , otherwise dialogue is spoken in Common. Very, very minor plot happens in this chapter.

The leaves had turned by the time the merchant caravan found its way back through the valley once again, fallen in shifting drifts to foreshadow the deep snow that would make this way the only path from mountains to arl’s home and back again through the long winter to come. Rory had traveled this way many times before, in all seasons. But it had never felt like this.

Despite knowing that this fertile land belonged to the Avvar, she had never felt hunted. The clan that bore Frosthold as their home had never threatened the lowlanders who passed through their lands. But something had changed. Everyone in the caravan felt it. They walked close together, the guards encircling them, on edge, weapons drawn. Something out there was watching them as a wolf watches a flock, with malice and threat, the promise of death on the autumn winds. Two days, they had been traveling under those unseen eyes, with wary words spoken at the campfire of gruesome tales told in distant lands, of massacres performed by the Avvar barbarians who decided without precedent that lowlanders were no longer welcome. She didn’t want to believe it. Cullen’s people wouldn’t attack them. Would they?

The question was answered in a way she could happily have lived without. As the caravan passed through a narrow cut between steep, forested banks, the trees were suddenly alive with the howling advance of an enemy too wild to fight. The bearded leader of the mercenary guards barked orders lost in the savage assault, words overwhelmed in the chaos that broke out as fur-clad, blue-painted beasts fell on the merchant camp, bearing fire and blade in hedonistic joy at each violent spatter of innocent blood. With a shriek that cut through the cacophony of sound, Rory abruptly scrambled from where she was set beside the carts, lurching toward the trees and the hope of escape.

She wasn’t the only one making a run for it. The merchants were scattering, cut down by sharp axes as they ran. She felt a hand catch at her cloak, gibbering unashamedly as she tugged the brooch open with a fierce snatch of her hand, stumbling forward into the shadow of the trees as her attacker swore and fell back, the resistance gone from his prize. She staggered over the trailing roots, up over the steep, unforgiving bank, knowing she was leaving a trail to follow, knowing she would be easy to track for those wild men and women who knew the earth so much better than her own people. Dragging herself into the hollow of a fallen trunk, she gasped for breath, fighting to keep the sound still, even as the cries of pain and death from the caravan below echoed up to her.

The sharp thud of footsteps close by stiffened her back with terror as she clamped her hand over her mouth, trying not to breathe at all. Many feet, hide and leather wrapped, legs bound with fur, rushed past her hiding place, down the steep incline, their owners barely seeming to notice the terrified lowland healer who had taken refuge from the violence below. But the sound as those running warriors joined the battle was not what she had expected. She had thought the noise would abate, the screams of the dead and dying cut off by the arrival of reinforcements for the barbarians. Instead … the sound of pain and fighting grew louder, _fiercer_. Foolish curiosity was enough to override her fear just long enough that she crawled from her hiding place, slithering down the bank to press to the lee of a wide oak and peer around it at the chaos she had left behind her.

Those blue-painted Avvar were … were being beaten back. The ones who had rushed past her were fighting them, as savagely as they had fallen on the lowlanders passing through. Red-painted, like Cullen, they must have been the clan that laid claim to this land, the clan that had never threatened or harmed the lowlanders in generations. Who were these blue-painted barbarians who thought they could destroy that peace? And … 

Her breath caught in her throat, sudden fear clutching her heart as she saw Cullen himself, armed with sword and buckler, there in the midst of the fighting. He was _magnificent_ , golden skin, tousled hair, glowing in the afternoon’s sunlight, the white and red marks of his clan on his face and chest lending a bestial quality to the snarl he offered as he cut down his enemy. He was one among many, both men and women, but he held her attention like a lodestone. He was _saving_ her, saving her people, from a threat no one had expected to face.

The woad-painted barbarians were fleeing now, leaving behind those of them who had fallen beneath Frosthold blades. Yet that did not mean everything was peaceful. As Cullen and his people turned to make certain their lowlander kin were at least breathing, the guards who were able drew weapons on them, and suddenly the air was filled once more with the threat of violence.

“No!”

It wasn’t until she stumbled out from her hiding place, tripping over the roots of the oak to tumble arse over tit down the last of the steep slope and land painfully in a heap at the bottom that Rory realized the denial had come from _her_ lips.  Curious eyes flickered to her as she dragged herself up onto her feet, biting down a whimper at the searing pain in her ankle that betrayed damage done by her own clumsiness, limping to stand between Cullen and Blackwall, the mercenary captain who had been her friend for years.

“Don’t,” she told them - both of them, knowing they could both understand her, even if Blackwall wasn’t entirely sure of it himself. “They saved us,” she told the bearded captain, turning her head to look up into Cullen’s eyes. It took a moment to gather the words she wanted to her tongue, her limited Avvar not up to this task. _“They not want be prey.”_

Those warm eyes she’d thought of so many times since they’d last seen one another studied her, lifting to look over her head at the still form of the captain so close by. He nodded to himself, but did not put up his weapon, instead turning his face toward another of the fearsome red-painted Avvar who stood nearby, words leaving their mouths that she could not wholly follow.

_“You trust her?”_

Cullen nodded again, his gesture firm with certainty. _“She’s the one,”_ he told his companion, who eyed Rory with sudden interest. _“She can be trusted.”_

With a last nod, the Avvar woman put up her weapons, and the war party with her followed suit. She stepped forward, toward Blackwall, putting himself in range of the captain’s blade. “I am Cassandra an Allegra O Frosthold,” she informed the guards calmly. “We will escort you to the village, see you safe from this place. The clan that attacked is not your concern.”

Blackwall eyed the beautifully fierce woman warily. “Rory?”

Taking her eyes from Cullen, Rory turned toward her friend, knowing what he wasn’t saying aloud. “They’re friends,” she promised him. “We’ve lived in peace with the Frost-clan for generations. And they _did_ just come to our rescue.” When he didn’t move, she rolled her eyes, laying her hands on her hips. “But, by all means, continue to wave your sword around like a dick on a stick while our people and theirs bleed out.”

This had an interesting effect on the warriors around her. At least _some_ of the Avvar understood Common, it seemed, given the number of badly concealed snorts of laughter from behind her, and several of Blackwall’s own men were suddenly sporting grins. Blackwall himself fought not to smirk at her turn of phrase, accepting her word.

“You speak their tongue, lass?” he asked, putting up his sword and shield.

“A very little,” she told him. “But since the nice lady was polite enough to speak to you in a language you understand, why not, I don’t know, actually talk to _her_ , and let _me_ do my job, hmm?”

“You’re not doin’ much for my standing here, healer,” Blackwall bemoaned, but conceded her point. “All right, fair enough. You lads, there’s dead to be seeing to and wounded to care for. Help the healer.”

Behind her, Rory heard Cassandra issue what seemed to be similar orders to her clansmen, letting out a soft squeak of surprise when Cullen’s arm claimed her waist to lift her just a little off her feet. She looked up at him, eyes wide with shock that he’d do something so familiar in front of so many people who might not take it well. His eyes were smiling, even if his expression was not.

“You are hurt,” he pointed out to her. “Where do you need to be?”

“I’m not hu -” He put paid to her objection by letting her take her own weight once again, catching her as she lurched to the side in agony at the protest from her ankle. Narrowing her eyes at his grin, she smacked his stomach hard. “Point taken.”

Under the curious eyes of her own people and his, he helped her over to where the camp was being set up, easing her down onto the ground to see to the wounded as they came to her, and despite that curiosity, she was soon engrossed. Healing was her art, her profession, and without a mage on hand to knit flesh and mend bones, she was the only chance these men and women had to avoid infection in the injuries they had taken. And it wasn’t only her own people who asked for her aid - once they saw that she was more than competent, the Avvar who had taken injury joined those waiting patiently to be seen, deciding among themselves who needed the healer’s hands most.

Absorbed as she was in stitching gashes, resetting bones, applying poultices, handing out potions to numb pain, Rory didn’t notice Cullen hovering at her back the whole while; she didn’t see the suspicious looks her people gave him, or the appraising looks his gave her. She didn’t hear Blackwall and Cassandra quietly discussing the next move, or the mutters of some of the lowland merchants about barbarians in their midst. Her ankle throbbed each time she shifted her weight, but she worked on as the afternoon drew to a close, as the sun began to set, bringing with it the chill of the autumn night yet to come.

“You have skill,” Cullen said as she sat back, the last of her work done for the time being. He crouched beside her, somehow managing to declare his claim on her without showing it openly. She was certain her own people would share this among the village when they returned, already expecting trouble from the mayor. “Your foot …”

“What? Oh …”

Reminded that she was in pain, Rory finally winced, carefully shifting onto her backside to reach for her boot. Cullen’s hands got there first. Heedless of the slightly unfriendly looks he was getting from a few of the guards, he untied the laces holding her boot in place, loosening the leather far more than she would have done to gently ease the constricting garment from her swollen ankle. He might even have reached under her skirt for the edge of her stocking if she hadn’t touched his hand warningly.

 _“No fight here,”_ she told him, her Avvar even worse than his Common had been just two months ago. It wasn’t exactly clear, but he seemed to understand what she meant.

“What do you need?” he asked aloud, taking care to speak words her own people understood.

She looked down at her swollen limb, grimacing at the thought of trying to move it. “What would be best would be to soak it in cold water,” she sighed, fairly sure that wasn’t possible. “I’ll live.”

“Cullen.”

They both looked up as his clanswoman - Cassandra - came to join them. She _was_ beautiful, Rory realized, feeling more than a little inconsequential when compared with this statuesque goddess in human form. Short black hair wrapped about with a thin braid, cheekbones to die for, and a confidence with the weapons she wore that would put many men to shame, Cassandra was frowning thoughtfully down at the redhead’s foot.

“Take the healer to the stream,” she ordered Cullen, glancing over her shoulder as though daring Blackwall to disagree. The bearded captain shrugged, nodding, rather than argue that point. _“Do not dally. Her safety is more important than your claim.”_

Cullen bit down on an obvious laugh at the warning given in his own tongue, obediently rising to lift a confused Rory up into the cradle of his arms. _“At your order,”_ he answered his leader, ignoring the now openly resentful frowns of the guards and merchants to bear their healer out of sight, into the darker woods to where a small stream flowed.

“What did she say?” Rory asked him as he ducked beneath low branches, her hands almost shy to grasp the bear fur that adorned his shoulders. “Something about … you and me?”

Cullen’s amber-bright eyes found hers as he bore her easily toward the trickling waters. “Cassandra wants you safe,” he told her, his grasp on Common still simple but far better than her understanding of Avvar. “We will not be long here.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “I don’t think that’s all she said,” she pointed out, but he didn’t give her anything but a teasing smile in answer, instead bending to set her down onto a smooth boulder by the trickling stream. “You’re not going to tell me what she said, are you?”

There was a particular look in his beautiful eyes when he actually didn’t understand what she was saying. That look was not there right now. He was deliberately feigning ignorance. So what _had_ his clanswoman said? Was it rude? Or suggestive? Why didn’t he want her to know?

Yet all these questions disappeared from her mind when he knelt at her feet, those confident, sinful hands of his sliding beneath the hang of her skirt, tracing fingertips over the woolen cling of her stocking to skim the line where flesh met wool at her thigh. She didn’t even try to hide her gasp, the sudden flush of her skin, her body reacting without the need for conscious thought to an intimate touch she hadn’t felt for three months or more. His teeth glinted in the rising moonlight, that ever-so-slightly feral gleam of his knowing grin hers to enjoy as he tugged the ribbon of her garter loose, peeling her stocking down the length of her leg with wicked promise, leaving no part of that slowly exposed skin untouched. But so _gentle_ were his hands that she barely felt a twinge of pain when he cupped her swollen ankle in his palm, carefully guiding her foot down into the running water that chilled her skin. She jumped at the first icy rush over her foot, her hand reflexively gripping his shoulder even as she laughed at her own reaction, watching as he cautiously tilted her foot back and forth in the moving stream, encouraging the swelling to lessen in the water that cooled her flesh.

“What did you mean?” she heard herself ask softly. “Your Thane to my thane. What does that mean?”

He tilted his head back, meeting her eyes with something that might have been confusion for just the briefest moment. “I will have you,” he told her, repeating something she was more than aware of since their last meeting. “My Thane will …” He frowned, stumbling over the word. “ _Arrange, negotiate, agree_ … Yes, he will agree with your thane. You will come with me.”

Rory stared at him, gradually beginning to comprehend. “You … you want to marry me?” she ventured uncertainly, startled when his lips curved into a bright smile.

“Yes,” he said, latching onto a word that had eluded him thus far. “We marry.”

Despite herself, despite the surge of desire that stemmed not just from lust but longing too, she heard herself release a slightly disparaging sound. “Do I not have any say in this?”

Cullen’s smile faded. It seemed he hadn’t considered that she might want to have some say in choosing the future he laid before her. Were the Avvar as autocratic with women’s lives as her own people could be, then? Was wanting him merely an act of lust, and not the yearning she had built it up to be?

“You will come, if you wish,” he said then, somehow setting her fears to rest with one single sentence. “Do you … are you …” He let out a frustrated breath, muttering through words she didn’t understand as he grappled with the language he had learned for her sake. “I want you. You want me. I ask my Thane to make place for you with us. He ask your thane ask you. I will not make you come; you come, if you wish.”

“Oh.”

She had a choice. He was jumping through hoops, daring the disapproval of his own clan, to give her the chance to _make_ that choice. Rory didn’t think she had ever heard anything quite so wonderful in all her life. In spite of her choices thus far, there was still an expectation in her village that she would eventually marry whoever was patient enough to wait for her to realize she wanted babies, that she would stop being a healer, and instead be a wife and mother. Cullen hadn’t mentioned anything like that, and she thought he would have, if it were a part of his culture. Instead, he had asked his Thane to negotiate for the opportunity to ask her to marry him, with no expectation beyond hope that she would agree. And now he knelt at her feet, looking into her eyes with fervent concern that he had angered her with his actions.

“I’ll come,” she blurted out, nodding hastily as her fingers reached to trace his cheek, to pour into the tousled curls atop his head. “I _do_ wish, I … Maker’s breath, Cullen, I’d come tonight if you asked me.”

The worry faded from his face, replaced with the confidence of his smile once again, reassured by her urgent assurance that he need not worry at all. “Not tonight,” he told her, gently wiping the excess water from her foot now the swelling had gone down, carefully sliding her stocking back into place. “Not this moon. I will come for you.”

Gentle fingers tied the ribbon of her garter secure, drawing her skirt back down to cover her legs … and suddenly he was rising, his mouth capturing hers in the kiss this violent interlude might have denied them entirely were it not for his people’s need to defend their lands. He was warm and certain in her arms, his tongue caressing her own as he drew her up with him, taking her weight with those risque hands of his tucked firm beneath the generous curve of her backside, the tips of his long fingers brushing the folds of her own dress tight between her legs just to taste her moan on his lips.

 _“Cullen,”_ she whined, feeling him laugh against her mouth, his hands retreating from her rear to slide beneath her legs and lift her up into the cradle of his arms, long before his lips left hers.

“Back to your people,” he told her, shamelessly unabashed by the way he had stroked her desire to that moment before the kindling flame burst free, knowing she would have to settle for the night in the knowledge that he was close by and untouchable.

She glared at him impotently as he ducked through the trees once again. “You did that on purpose.”

He flashed her a grin that melted her just a little more, a hint of the boy hidden behind the man who was letting her see his playful side before hiding away again. “I did.”

She flicked his ear, reveling in the yelp he didn’t quite manage to suppress in time to keep the Avvar guarding the camp from grinning over at them as he ducked back into view, carrying her aloft like some precious princess. Rory couldn’t help noticing that Blackwall looked relieved that she’d been brought back, frowning curiously over at her friend as Cullen gently set her down by the fire among her people before retreating to take his place at the perimeter among the other Avvar. It looked as though the lowlanders were to be guarded for the night, as well as escorted to their village personally.

Two nights of sleeping in the same camp where Cullen kept watch. Two days of traveling with him, always aware of him, always wanting him, and not daring to make it too obvious. _Well, that’s not going to cause any trouble at all, is it?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note - as before, spoken Avvar dialogue is in _italics_ , otherwise it’s Common.

“Think you can turn me down when everyone knows you’ve been spreading your legs for some Avvar dog-fucker?”

Rory felt her jaw tighten, but she swallowed down the instinctive response. _Just keep walking,_ she told herself. Keep walking, get out of the tavern. _He’s a drunk coward, he won’t follow you._

It didn’t help that she could hear others agreeing with him. Ever since they had returned from that dangerous crossing of the valley two weeks ago, the village had been rife with speculation on the Avvar, and more specifically, on how it could be that _she_ was so comfortable with the barbarians to the north. The mercenaries under Blackwall’s command hadn’t said a word; it was the merchants who had survived that were loose with their suggestions. Men who’d leered at her since she developed a shape were talking about her whenever she passed by, sharing lewd thoughts on what she might have let the entire Frost-clan do to her; women who, until now, had respected her opinion on illness and injury were gossiping and warning their children not to interact with her. It was infuriating. And isolating. She’d never felt so unsafe in her own home.

“Don’t you turn your back on me!” the ugly voice continued, rising in volume as she set her course for the door. She heard the chair scrape back against the floor, knowing he’d risen from his seat. “I’ll give you a fucking no shit-stinking barbarian ever could!”

“Oh, you will, will you?”

 _That_ voice made Rory stop in her tracks, raising her eyes to the doorway ahead of her. Ria, her best friend, the closest thing she had to a sister, was standing there, hazel-green eyes blazing with incandescent fury. Ria, all five foot and a fart of her, with arms akimbo, glaring past her best friend to pin the bawdy bastard with a look that could have castrated him. The little woman marched into the tavern, past her redheaded friend, straight up to the man yelling profanities at her back, and delivered a roundhouse slap that knocked him straight back down into his seat.

“Don’t you _ever_ so much as even _look_ at her again,” she warned him fiercely. “And you know you asked me to marry you? You can take your wedding ring and fuck it yourself because, believe me, that’s the _only_ thing that will ever feel tight around your limp dick!”

She didn’t wait for the answer, turning back on her heel to march out of the tavern, smoothly wrapping her arm through Rory’s on the way. Rory let herself be tugged out, half-relieved that her friend had happened by when she did, and half-mortified that Ria had just turned down her fifth marriage proposal in two years in such a public manner.

“He’s not going to let that stand,” she warned her friend quietly as they stepped out into the market square together.

“Fuck him,” was Ria’s succinct response to that. “I wouldn’t have said yes, anyway. How _dare_ he talk to you like that? You saved his fucking life a year ago!”

“I think he might have forgotten in all the pent-up sexual frustration,” Rory drawled quietly, feeling her own agitation starting to ease. Ria might have a filthy mouth, but she could always be relied upon to lighten her friend’s mood.

“You haven’t actually denied anything they’ve been saying, though,” the little woman at her side pointed out in a gentler tone, turning them both to walk toward the south gate, where the house they shared was set snug against the stockade wall.

Rory glanced down at her friend, one brow raised. “What do you want me to say?”

“How about the truth?” Ria challenged her mischievously. “Look, I _know_ you’ve met someone. You’re all glowy and giggly, and you’ve been getting _very_ shifty when the old nags start on about getting you married off all summer. So?”

“So … I … _have_ met someone, yes,” the redhead admitted a little awkwardly.

“And?” Ria squeezed her arm, grinning hopefully up at her friend.

Rory laughed, rolling her eyes. “And … it might come to nothing,” she attempted to evade the question as they turned onto the south road. “He might …” She trailed off, eyes suddenly very wide as she came to an abrupt halt.

“He might … what?” Ria yelped as she, too, was forced to stop. “What is it?”

She followed the line of Rory’s stare, letting out a strangled sound that was pretty much a sign of instant lust, and sighed so loudly Rory was pretty sure they could hear her even from here.

There were three Avvar men standing at the south gate, cloaked, armed, bare chests painted in red and white. Cullen was one of them, his whiskey-lit eyes fixed on her already as she stood frozen in her tracks. What was he doing here? This wasn’t going to fix anything in the village! If anything, the fact that she was completely unable to move and blushing violently just at a look from him was going to make her life infinitely harder! At her side, Ria’s head swung slowly back and forth, eyeing the intense eye-fucking her friend was being given, and the equally intense trembling she could feel from said friend.

“Oh, yeah,” she drawled, the sound of her voice snapping Rory from her momentary paralysis. “ _Nothing_ going on there at all.”

“Shut up,” Rory muttered, glancing down at the muddy road before her feet as Ria laughed cheerfully.

“You can’t stand here all day,” the little woman told her, pulling hard on her arm. “They’re outside our house. Is that the arl, too?”

Rory’s head snapped up at this, forcing her eyes past the arresting sight of a gorgeous man she’d only really seen in half-light until two weeks ago, and his two almost-equally gorgeous companions, to the slightly less impressive sight of Arl Teagan in his fur-lined cloak, standing with them. _Oh, my giddy aunt … he actually did it._ Moving forward without conscious direction to her feet, she let herself take a better look at the two other Avvar. One was a dark-haired warrior of comparable height to Cullen, someone she had met during the unexpected two-day escort back to the village - Rylen, that was his name - and the other … She couldn’t actually make out many details of the third Avvar. Tall, yes; defined, certainly; not as broad as Cullen, nor as instantly remarkable; but the main reason she couldn’t quite work out whether he was as handsome was because he was wearing a lion’s pelt, with the head worn as a hood, the upper jaw hanging low over his eyes.

“Bloody hell, Ror, you might have said,” Ria muttered to her as they advanced down the road. “That man is sex on legs.”

Rory glanced sharply at her friend, feeling the first sting of concern that Cullen might have caught her eye … and found Ria sharing a decidedly suggestive smirk with Rylen. She bit her lip, trying not to laugh. Her best friend had only just prevented an ugly situation about the possibility of an Avvar having what a local couldn’t from getting any worse, and now she was willfully throwing herself into the same predicament.

“Ree, not so obvious,” she murmured in answer, unsurprised to find herself completely ignored. Well, Rylen didn’t seem to mind the attention, anyway.

Her own eyes rose inexorably to Cullen’s face as they drew closer, feeling her skin flush at the banked fire behind his gaze as he looked her over. It was only after he’d finished that look - after she’d felt his stare rake over every inch of her down and up - that she realized just _why_ he’d done that. He was looking for any sign that she might have been punished for her friendliness to him and his people on the road. He was _worried_ about her. So much for not being obvious; that realization brought a soft smile to her face, a gentle nod of reassurance that he answered with a warmer cast to his own gaze.

“Mistress Rory, a word?”

She tore her eyes from Cullen with some difficulty, blinking to clear her thoughts as the arl addressed her. Poor man - even in all his finery, he just didn’t compare to the trio of decidedly male specimens standing around him. He did his best to be authoritative, though, inclining his head to her as she nudged Ria rather sharply in the ribs.

“Of course, my lord,” she said politely, moving toward the door of their little house. “Come inside. And your … guests?”

“Thane Spirit-Hand will join us,” Arl Teagan informed her. “His, uh, companions will remain here, I am told.”

Rory couldn’t help tilting a curious gaze toward Cullen and Rylen. They both affected to look a little more menacing as they moved to stand on either side of the door, though she could definitely see amusement hidden in Cullen’s whiskey-lit eyes. This was a lot more formal than she had expected it to be.

“Please, my lord, Thane Spirit-Hand.” She opened the door for the two men who were closer at her heels. “After you.” As they stepped inside ahead of her, she looked down at Ria, who was still eyeing up Rylen with definite interest. “Are you coming in, too, or are you staying to enjoy the view?”

Ria grinned, taking her gaze slowly from Rylen to meet her friend’s eyes mischievously. “If you think I’m going to miss this, you don’t know me at all.”

Inside the little house, the arl and the Thane had already made themselves comfortable, taking seats at the table where the two women took their meals and created the potions they used for their various duties. The Thane had pushed back his lion-head hood, revealing a surprisingly piercing pair of dark eyes that were seeing far more than Rory was sure she was comfortable with.

“Mistress Rory, Mistress Ria,” Arl Teagan began, gesturing for the two women to sit at their own table. “I have a somewhat unusual request.” He glanced almost awkwardly at the Avvar Thane beside him, but plunged on regardless. “You are aware that the Avvar of Frosthold are experiencing … hostilities … with a rival clan, I trust? It seems this clan is attempting to take territory, and has no care for the lives of our people passing through the valley. The Thane has very generously offered protection for our caravans for the duration of this violence, and has only one request in return. Namely, Mistress Rory, _you_.”

Despite Cullen’s insistence the last time they’d met, Rory was still surprised to hear it said aloud. “Me?”

“Yes.” Arl Teagan shifted uncomfortably. “I understand you have … made contact … with a member of the Frost-clan?”

“Oh … oh.” There was no way to hide the brilliant blush that lit up her cheeks as she realized that the arl may have been told, in no uncertain terms, what consisted of that contact. “I … yes, my lord, I-I have.”

“The request made is -”

At this point, Thane Spirit-Hand leaned forward, capturing all their attention as he spoke. “We offer you a place in our hold and clan,” he said calmly, seemingly at home with the subject at hand, despite the fact that the lowlanders considered it rather delicate. “If, after a year has passed, you wish to return to your people, we will not prevent it. If you choose to remain, we will welcome you. My mate, Cassandra, speaks highly of your skill. There is always need for a healer in the mountains.”

Rory found herself staring at him. This wasn’t the embarrassing offer she had been expecting. There had been no mention of Cullen, or mating, or marriage. The Thane was asking her, the healer, to join their clan, and giving her an out if things did not settle comfortably for her. It was a far more generous offer than she could have hoped to receive, from anyone. Beside her, Ria finally spoke up.

“She’s not going anywhere without me.”

The Thane turned his piercing eyes onto the small blonde across from him, a curious smile touching his face. “You share blood with this woman, _lilla du?_ ”

As Rory glanced between them, Ria drew herself up. “No,” she said honestly. “But she’s all I’ve got. She’s more family than I’ve ever had, and I’m all her family, too. So she’s not leaving me behind. If you want her, then you have to have me, too.”

Arl Teagan was goggling at her, his expression not so much floored as gobsmacked. It must have been quite a shock to discover that not only did the Avvar want one of his arling’s healers, but that another of the women would be so bold as to demand to go as well. The Thane, however, was openly smiling now.

“And what do you offer us, _lilla du?_ ” he asked Ria, his tone surprisingly gentle.

“I’m a midwife,” Ria declared stoutly. “And I can brew healing potions. I help Rory, and she helps me. She doesn’t know the first thing about babies.”

“Thanks,” Rory muttered, but even she was smiling at this declaration. She’d worried about having to say goodbye to her closest friend; it looked as though she wouldn’t be having to do that at all.

The Thane nodded slowly, glancing between the two women. “Then we have a place for you also,” he told Ria. “If you wish to come.”

“Ah …” Arl Teagan had found his voice again. “I think, Thane Spirit-Hand, it may be wise to make clear the, ah, the full conditions of this … arrangement?”

“Indeed, you are wise, Thane Teagan.”

The man the arl insisted on calling Spirit-Hand looked between the two women. Rory was pretty sure her face was hot enough to cauterize an amputated limb by now, but Ria was oblivious, leaning forward, anxious to know what she was missing. Rory was never going to live this down, she could tell. Years of constantly having it pointed out that she’d all but got engaged in secret whenever Ria kept something from her loomed.

“The place offered in our hold is one of captured bride,” the Thane said, pausing as Ria suddenly squealed and punched her redheaded friend’s arm hard.

“You _did!_ Which one? Oh, no, wait, let me guess … the blonde one with the come to bed eyes!”

“Ria!”

“Ladies, if you would …”

The Thane was laughing, a rich sound that was far from intimidating, genuinely pleased by the comfortable relationship the two women displayed. The arl’s slightly scandalized interjection was enough to pull them back to themselves, allowing his guest to continue.

“As the healer is aware, Cullen wishes to wed her,” the Thane went on through his grin. “ _Lilla du,_ if you choose to come, you will be bedded as a captured bride for a year yourself before you have the opportunity to choose. No man among my clan has a prior claim upon you.”

“Can I suggest the tall streak of sex out there with _her_ tall streak of sex?” Ria offered cheerfully.

Rory groaned, dropping her head into her hands in acute embarrassment. She loved her friend, but sometimes she would quite like to strangle her. A gentle touch on her hand brought her head up, finding the arl watching her in concern. As Ria and the Thane wrangled over just what her inclusion in this deal might mean, Arl Teagan rose, inviting Rory to step away for a moment.

“Mistress … you do not have to do this,” he told her quietly. “That is, be certain that your choice is yours alone. Our villages around the valley will be quite secure without this offer of aid; it is only the crossing of the valley itself which is now a danger. A well-armed and prepared company of guards could do the work these Avvar offer, without losing two of our own.”

Rory sighed, shaking her head. “My lord … even if this offer wasn’t made, I would be leaving here,” she told him firmly. “This village is no longer a home for me; I do not feel safe here. Ignorance and prejudice will see violence done to me at some point, and there would be no punishment for it, because in their eyes, I’ve already betrayed them. If Cullen wants me, I’ll go with him; his people are making a place for me, at his request. There are other healers in the villages. You won’t be losing anything by my leaving.”

“ _Our_ leaving,” Ria interrupted pointedly. “We’re both going.”

“Your little friend has quite the silver-tongue,” the Thane said, rising to his feet. “It is decided, then?”

Arl Teagan eyed the two women regretfully. “It is decided,” he agreed in a heavy tone. “Your men may take them when they choose.”

Thane Spirit-Hand nodded. “One thing more, then, that I must see before I place my hand to yours,” he said thoughtfully, raising his voice to call his two companions into the little house. Rory couldn’t follow everything he said, but there was something about … proof, and something about the hunted hunter, or something. She really needed to get on top of this language in a hurry.

Rylen was the first to respond to his Thane’s words, bending to wrap an arm about Ria’s waist and lift her bodily off the ground, pressing his grin to her startled yelp before she had the wits to fight back. Rory couldn’t help laughing at the sight of that; she’d never seen Ria’s outrageous flirting flipped into reverse like that before, and she had _never_ seen her friend melt at just a kiss. It looked as though Ria had finally talked herself into something she might just be out of her depth with.

Not that she watched for long - the familiar, gentle strength of Cullen’s fingers stroked her neck, drawing her eyes to him as his palm warmed the firm jut of her jaw, lips descending to brush hers with warm, gentle passion. Not for them the first rush of lust in this kiss; no need to prove an attraction existed between them. This was tender affection given with a certainty she had never felt before, stealing her breath as his lips parted to tease her into sharing something something far less appropriate for the arl’s eyes. Her fingers skimmed painted chest, bear fur, tousled curls; his hands found their home at her hip, over the first curve of her rear; lips pressed and teased, tongues battled with slow promise; every part of her rose to him, wanting, _needing_ more than just a kiss.

Yet a kiss was all he gave her in this moment. She vaguely heard Ria giggling as her friend was put down once again; just about aware of the arl averting his eyes, and the Thane watching closely. But Cullen was all she truly saw, all she felt, wanting those sinful hands to touch her again as he had before, to break the kindling embers into fervent flame once more. His eyes burned into hers as she clung to him, forgetting her own propriety in favor of keeping him close for as long as she could.

“I will come for you,” he told her, his own voice hoarse with the hunger she could see reflected in his gaze. “On the dark moon, be ready.”

“I will,” she whispered, nodding her head as his fingers flexed against her, gripping the loose folds of her dress before abruptly releasing his hold and stepping back.

Arl Teagan cleared his throat awkwardly, glancing between the two women - one who was at least still able to produce a clear gaze and understood what was going on; the other, a giggling, blushing mess who was obviously going to have a much better year than he was, that was for sure.

“You have seen what you wished to see?” he asked the Thane archly.

Thane Spirit-Hand’s grin was almost obnoxiously pleased. “I have witnessed the promise,” he agreed. “Our deal is fixed. The capture will be successful.”

“The claim will be even more so,” Rylen added with a wicked grin as he looked in Ria’s direction.

Rory snorted with laughter as her friend blushed dark once again but still managed to produce a cheeky smile in answer. She couldn’t see either of them willingly choosing to come back here, if all Avvar lived life the way their men seemed to. A year was more than long enough to make the decision to stay, but … in a way, the decision was already made. And Cullen knew it, had said it with absolute confidence months before.

_You are **mine.  
**_


	6. Chapter 6

Ugly words. That’s all they were; just ugly words spoken by the ignorant. Never so loud as to invite rebuttal, never spoken where others more kindly disposed might hear; hissed at her back as she passed, muttered from behind poisonous glares in public places. Ten days of simmering hostility, only bearable because her time here was finite, only tolerated because she would not be leaving Ria to field this nonsense in her absence. Oh, there were a few in the village who didn’t much care either way, but the gossip that had begun as disbelieving had become malicious over the days that followed. Rory was increasingly reluctant to leave the little house she shared with Ria, only venturing out in broad daylight to see to her duties as a healer before disappearing from view once again. And even there, she couldn’t escape the accusation in the air. At night, she could hear the men who had drunk too much, shouting at her window.

_Slut._

_Whore._

_Harlot._

_Slattern._

Part of her wanted to fight back, to make it absolutely plain to every single one of them that she was none of these things. Ria _was_ fighting back; every day, Rory heard her friend’s strident voice either advancing toward or retreating from the house, declaring intimately humiliating facts about every man or woman who dared to insult the redheaded healer within her earshot. And Ria knew a _lot_ of humiliating facts about almost everyone in the village, including some of the old nags who were responsible for embellishing the nasty gossip before passing it on. Rory wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry - laugh, because her freedom from this wretched place that had finally shown its colors was only a few hours away; cry, because she had thought these people were her friends.

But this was her last day here. The night just past, with its broken sleep and shouted insults, her last night in this suddenly horrible place with its bigots and fools and resentful idiots who couldn’t understand why she might deign to be pleasant to the clan who tolerated their presence in their valley. Their cruelty had no basis that they knew of; she took their insults to heart because of what she knew. Only _she_ knew how easily she had kindled to Cullen’s flame; only _she_ knew the shame of having that wild, wonderful connection reduced to a slur on the lips of old women who knew better. And yet still she was finishing her business, bottling potions they would need over the long winter to come without her, cleaning her home ready for the next occupants.

“They do not deserve you.”

Startled, she bolted upright from the hearth, one hand closing about the iron poker as she spun to find the intruder in her home. No, not her home … and not an intruder. _Cullen._ Quite how he had got inside without her notice, without the notice of any of the village, in the cool light of the approaching winter’s day, was beyond her to guess, yet there he was. Tall and broad, a giant among pygmies, leaning against the ladder that rose to the bedroll she shared with Ria in the rafters, he watched her with compassionate eyes, seeing the isolation she had driven herself to in his absence.

“What are you … how did you …?”

“You will come with me?” he asked, overruling her unfinished questions as he pushed from his lean, moving with the fluid grace of a sensual predator to take the poker from her unresisting hand. “Now?”

His own hand, large and strong, smoothed down her back as he loomed over her, palm pressing flat to her spine to pull her sharply to his chest. Long fingers, callused with years of weapons-training, traced along her cheek, noting the dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her frame. Just his touch, the reality of him right _there_ , brought all her fears of this place that had once been home to light. She felt so _safe_ with Cullen, always; never rushed, never pushed, never forced beyond her means. And that safety poured over her, soothing her bruised heart as she loosed a shuddering breath, pressing into his arms to breathe in the scent he carried - oakmoss and leather, the acrid tang of paint on his skin, the underlying musk that was indefinably _him_. His fingers tucked themselves into her braided hair, holding her face close to his chest as she shuddered, giving her this time to find herself in his arms once again.

 _“Mitt hjärta,”_ he whispered to her, that strangely beautiful endearment she did not yet understand. “Let them go. You are mine now.”

Her head bobbed in agreement, in understanding, the urge toward tears fading as he stroked her back. _Let them go._ He was right. She’d made her decision months ago; there was nothing holding her here. Raising her eyes to his, Rory felt a sliver of a smile touch her lips, echoed in the broader curve of his own mouth as he bent to kiss her. A soft kiss, a tender kiss, a kiss that stole her breath as it suddenly deepened, his tongue demanding to taste her as he lifted her up, guiding her legs about his waist, pressing her back against the warm stone of the chimney. She gasped at the swift rise of passion, the heat that flared between them, not even trying to restrain herself as she felt his desire pulse against her own in the intimate press of him between her thighs. Her moan painted his throat with her breath as his fingers skimmed upward, beneath the heavy hang of her dress to tease against the bare skin above her stockings. In answer, he groaned into her mouth as her nails scraped through his tousled curls, the sound more arousing to her than any she’d heard in her lifetime.

“Mine,” he purred to her, hips pulsing to hers in teasing mimicry of the intimate act they had fallen short of together. “Say it. Tell me.”

“Yours,” she gasped, clinging to him as the kindling fire broke into flames inside her, the cruel ignorance of her neighbors forgotten in the heady press of her Avvar lover. “Yours, only yours, Cullen, _please!”_

She felt him grin against the beat of her pulse, the gentle touch of his teeth to her throat as he gentled his touch, easing back to set her down onto her feet. She swayed back against the hearthstones, short of breath, short of patience with his constant teasing, glaring up at that cocky, kissable grin.

“Don’t do that again,” she warned him beneath heavy brows, not entirely sure she was mollified when he wiped his grin away and assumed an expression that appeared to be apologetic. “I mean it. Teasing is one thing, but -”

He caught her lips once more, a last wicked brush of his palm to envelop her breast through layers of wool, stopping her words before she could offer up any he didn’t understand, leaving her again breathless and glaring, her face flushed with the need to have him that he kept denying her.

“When next my skin is yours to touch, I will _claim_ you,” he promised her, each word a tender growl that sent flickering sparks down her spine to earth in liquid flame deep inside. “You will know what it is to be an Avvar’s bride.”

His hand smacked her backside, sharp enough to sting but hardly painful, startling her out of her almost trance-like fixation on his lips before her eyes. She jumped, slapping his stomach in answer, and he laughed at her reaction, catching her hand to draw his lips over her knuckles.

“Take what you will miss,” he told her. “We go, now.”

“Now?” She blinked, startled. She had assumed that they would leave under cover of night, not in the middle of the afternoon on a busy market day. But then … she didn’t intend ever coming back, did she? Where was the harm in making it clear to all those small-minded people out there that they had lost a resource they would dearly miss in the months to come? “What about Ria?”

Cullen snorted with laughter, those whiskey-lit eyes of his glittering with amusement. “Rylen has her.”

Rory stared at him for a moment. “When did he … Never mind.”

Shaking her head, she bit down a smile of her own. She _had_ wondered why Ria hadn’t returned to the house at midday; now she knew. _She’s probably got him balls deep in her mouth somewhere out there as we speak._ Under Cullen’s eyes, she moved about the little living space, considering what it was she would truly miss if she left it behind. Clothing could be replaced; herbs gathered and dried anew. It was getting colder; she would need her cloak if only for the journey. Muttering to herself, she packed a satchel with the tools of her trade - knives and needles, jars of rare ointments, bottle of potions that were made with rare substances. Her fingers hesitated over a small carved box at the very bottom of her personal chest, the only thing she retained from a life she had walked away from more than a decade before. She hadn’t looked inside it in years, and yet …

 _No._ She drew her hand away, yet a moment later, Cullen leaned down to lift the little box from where it hid, tucking it gently into the satchel with a gently understanding glance.

“You will miss it,” he predicted, one finger stroking along her cheek for a brief moment before allowing her to rise and sling the satchel strap over her head. Another moment, and her cloak was about her shoulders, tied in place as she steeled herself for what was about to happen.

She turned to face him, her Avvar captor, the only man who could steal her will with a single blazing look, and found him straightening his shoulders, endeavoring to look even bigger than he usually did. He, too, was bracing himself for what lay ahead; a lone barbarian among savages. He caught her concerned glance, his expression breaking into a suddenly mischievous grin.

“Fear me, for I steal my woman,” Cullen declared, his voice abruptly booming so loudly that she was certain they heard him in the busy street outside. He caught her hand, pulling her toward him, and with a practiced bend and twist, lifted her up onto his back, arms and legs wrapped securely about him.

“Do not let go,” he added in a softer tone, rearing back to kick down the door that lead out into the village.

The wooden portal did not stand much of a chance against his determined strength. The hinges burst from their placement as the entire door slammed out into the street beyond, dropping into the packed mud with an emphatic _crash_. Men and women passing jumped back in shock; the nearest edge of the busy market turned silent as eyes peered toward the sound of violence. And Cullen, all six foot and more of him, charged out into the afternoon sunlight at a dead run, Rory clinging to his back.

To say the villagers were shocked was to miss the perfect opportunity to use the word _flabbergasted_. An Avvar barbarian had entered their home without them knowing. An Avvar barbarian who did not care if they knew he was there. An Avvar barbarian who was accelerating toward the south gate of the stockade with their healer on his back, roaring like some crazed beast while she laughed in joyful abandon. It was one thing to spread gossip and speak unkindly; it was quite another to see that gossip made flesh in the hurtling form of a man ten times the male any of their number could claim to be, stealing away the willing form of a redheaded woman who did not need them.

As shouts rose from behind them, Cullen pounded through the gate and onto the dirt road, following the track to the curve that would hide them from the view of those trying to follow. Rory clung to him, her hands wrapped tight about the leather straps that held his mantle in place, her dangling legs held secure by the firm grasp of his hands at her thighs, fighting to still her giggles as he veered off the path and into the thick forest that bordered the valley his people called their own. She pressed her face against the thick line of his neck to muffle the sound of her laughter, huddled close on his back as he picked his way with enviable speed and quiet over roots and rocks, leaving the village, the arling, far behind him.

It was only a single day’s journey to reach Frosthold, she knew, and already she could feel the weight of her own society’s expectations falling away from her. If she was going to be a captured bride, she would be the best she could be. She would embrace the Avvar culture, their gods, their customs. She would earn her right to stay by the end of the year that loomed ahead of her. For Cullen, who had risked so much for her, she could do no less.

And if this claiming of his did not involve a damn good fucking, she was going to be having _words_ with his Thane.


	7. Chapter 7

Hands smoothed over bare skin made sensitive by the soft swell of a chill breeze creeping in to challenge the blazing heat of the fire. The intoxicating smell of mint, rose, rare jasmine, rising from water that no longer steamed, transferred to a pale body painted in soft shades by the flickering conflagration. Fingertips made callused by long years of survival stroked patterns of citrus-strong bergamot into the warmth of her wrists, the hollow of her knees, as other hands, sure and gentle, combed the gentle familiarity of elfroot and oakmoss into the clean sway of flame-touched hair. From outside the sturdy longhouse came the rhythmic chant of drums and voices, a heady beat that seemed to compliment the patter of her own heart as Rory tried to imagine what this night would bring.

Cullen, definitely … the culmination of his summer-long seduction, not only of her body but her mind, as well. Somehow, he had opened her mind to the possibility of being more than a lone woman in a society that looked down on her, simply by looking at her as something to be cherished. She could still remember the heat in his eyes that first time he had shown himself; the hunger reflected there that had woken her to the reality of him, to the understanding that lust could be more than just a physical feeling. He had claimed her in that moment, she was sure. Ever since that day, she had been his, and each touch, each kiss, had only served to confirm in her mind that her place was here, with him and his people.

A people who seemed almost pleased to welcome not only her, but Ria, too, into their midst. Cullen and Rylen had traveled through the night to bring their captured brides to Frosthold, delivering the women to their female relatives in the cold light of the new dawn. Ria had been given to Rylen’s mother and grandmother; Rory, to Cullen’s sisters, who had tucked her into a bed and let her sleep most of the day away. When she’d woken, she had been given a good meal of slow-baked salmon and seeded bread before the two women had managed to introduce themselves by means of some highly specialized hand-gestures and stripped her to her skin to prepare her for the night ahead.

Bathed in a wooden-slatted bathtub before the roaring fire, her skin had been stroked with jasmine and mint, rose petals scattered through the water; her hair was unbound and washed, dried by means of a warmed bone comb as they worked the familiar scent of elfroot and oakmoss through the loose length. The two women filled the quiet time with soft chatter, though they all knew she didn’t understand a word. But despite that, Rory found herself oddly comforted by these two warm women who seemed so very pleased by her mere existence. Mia was the elder, a little brusque, seemingly blunt, often sending the younger into giggles with a word or comment murmured over Rory’s head; Rosalie, that giggly younger, seemed a little more carefree, a little more impatient with life, yet both had nothing but smiling encouragement for the stranger their brother had chosen to bed.

Whatever their feelings, they were nothing but kind to her, their soft conversation fading as the beat of the drums outside began to quicken, offering some signal she didn’t yet understand. With gentle hands, she was guided into a sleeveless, parchment thin shift of unbleached linen, fur-lined cuffs of leather set about her wrists, each one set with a sturdy ring of iron. Drawn from the central chamber of the longhouse through a solid partition-wall of thick wooden planks, Rory found herself in a narrow room dominated by a carved oak bed. Her mouth went dry, powerless to resist as Mia and Rosalie carefully guided her down to lie on the thick furs that adorned that bed, raising her arms to attach the links on her cuffs to a chain looped through the teeth of a carven lion’s head that looked down from the frame above the pillows. A captured bride, indeed. With a last encouraging smile, Mia drew a soft woolen blanket over the redhead’s suddenly vulnerable form, and the two women withdrew, leaving her alone with nothing but her thoughts and the heady beat of the drum.

The steady rhythm quickened once, twice, rising to a crescendo that seemed to vibrate within her where she lay, aching with anticipation. Should she have been afraid? Perhaps some women were in such a situation. But she _knew_ who would come through that door, her eyes fixed on the rough-hewn wood, eager to finally see him again. Eager to be touched by confident hands, truly seen by hungry amber eyes, claimed as his for all his people to hear. Lulled by the scents that lingered on her skin, in her hair; teased by the soft tug of linen over her body, the prickle of fur beneath her back; taunted by the sound of voices outside, Rory lay in restless need, unconsciously clenched tight within herself as though trying to hold her own pleasure at bay.

The door opened.

There he was, filling the doorway, a god in human form. Golden skin was hers to enjoy, naked masculinity cast in flickering shadow by the dancing firelight, that same dappling flame highlighting the red in his tousled golden curls … his eyes, bright and demanding in his hunger, glittering reflections of aged whiskey, raking over her form where she lay, his to consume, to command, to _claim_. She saw him all in an instant, his desire on show for her delight, proud and supple in the fire’s glow. There was no tease in his gaze now. The time for seduction was over.

He prowled toward her, a predator to his willing prey, the world shut away as her consciousness narrowed to just this room, just this man. Callused fingertips brushed the curve of her instep, and she gasped at the electrifying sensation of his touch, as though she had been denied it too long to stand much more than that single, delicate caress. His lips parted in a feral grin at her keen response, the far edge of the blanket gathered into his palm as slowly, gradually, he drew the covering from her form, silently revealing his captive bride in her virginal shift, bound in place yet arching toward him, yearning for more than just the exhilaration of being seen.

Yet he did not move to touch again, simply allowing his eyes to travel the length of her, from the flexing impatience of her bare toes, up long legs outlined by the cling of thin linen to the shadowed dip where her thighs met, higher to the heave of her chest as she arched, tugging at her captive hands chained above her head. It was just like that first look he had given her, all those months ago; the heat, the hunger, shared back and forth without the need for words, pricking her sleeping ardor into searing flame that pooled with unequivocal intent, readying her for him with just the passage of his possessive gaze. His grin turned knowing once again, the cocky certainty that she wanted him, needed him, as much as he felt that yearning for her. She whimpered, his name a strangled plea on her lips … and finally he came to her.

Long limbs found a place to crawl over her with sinuous intent, the heat of his body brushing her own but never giving her the satisfaction of physical touch. She arched her back, pulling on the chains that held her in place to lift herself up, tantalizingly close and yet not close enough. His breath tormented her lips as he held her gaze, the lion surveying his chosen mate, deliberately urging her coiling desire tighter with silent admiration that was finally broken by the willing, impatient prey.

“Cullen, I swear to the Maker and every god you hold dear, if you don’t touch me now, I am going to _scream!”_

He laughed his rich, playful laugh, the predatory gleam in his eyes softening to hear her give up on being his prey finally. She might be his captured bride, but she was his equal in ways no other man would ever give her.

“You will scream no matter what I do, _mitt hjärta_ ,” he promised her in a low growl, the tip of his nose just barely ghosting against her own, still teasing her past caring despite her demand.

His words struck deep into her quivering form, a tender moan that was almost a sob rising from her lips … and at last, he took what she offered him, hot mouth slanting over her begging whispers, tasting, teasing, _taking_ , as the hands that had haunted her for so many lonely nights found purchase on her restless form. The thin linen was no protection against the burning heat of his palms, the knowing knead of fingers that had already touched her until she shattered in his arms, crumpling beneath his grasp as he drew his touch to the neckline that hung off-center at her breast. Devouring lips stole her breath with a forceful hunger she had imagined but never yet felt from him, all his control lost in the knowledge that she was here, she was _his_ , and no man could take her from him.

Strong hands gripped the fragile cloth that hid her from him, jerking sharply apart, and the linen tore in one long screech of ripping fibers, parting easily until she lay atop rags, exposed, raw, desperate for more, aching to touch him even as he found his place in the cradle of her hips. He tasted her gasping cry as she felt the hardening velvet of his manhood stroke through the slickness of her folds, a tender titillation that sparked a new surge of crackling passion to electrify the slender curves that were his to worship at will. His lips broke from hers, his own breath ragged with want as those beautiful eyes, honeyed and lustful, bore into her own.

“Say it,” he growled to her, needing to hear more than just the sounds of her pleading pleasure. “Tell me.”

The words burst from her lips without the need for thought, as much a mark of her very being as an entreaty for him to take what she offered so freely. “Yours,” she heard herself exclaim, heedless of other ears that might hear her, so frantic now that not even shame at her own need could bring her down from the heights he tormented her with. “Please, Cullen, _please_ , I’m yours, only yours … Sweet Maker, don’t -”

The words were lost in a garbled cry as those glorious hands dipped to her hips, as the heat of his body rose from hers. Yet he did not leave her wanting for long. With affectionate strength, he lifted her up, flipping her over to find purchase on her knees as her fingers wound into the twisted chain that held her hands so far from him. This was _his_ moment, _his_ claim. She could lay her own claim when he was done, when he had taken what she so willingly offered. The enveloping broadness of him crowded in at her back, guiding her spine to dip, to present herself like a bitch in heat, and oh, she was _so_ pliable to his will, purring at the sensation of those hands at her hips, fingers dragging blunt along the delicate softness of inner thighs that quaked at the passage of his touch.

Her hips jerked as his thumb brushed the throbbing prominence of her clit, hypersensitive to the merest suggestion of teasing after weeks spent with little but her own touch and her imagination to sustain her. His hand snatched back swiftly, rising to stroke fingers tenderly against the soft flatness of her stomach as he leaned into her, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair.

“Hurt you?” he murmured, worry flaring in his voice even as she shook her head, arching back against him.

“N-no,” she promised fervently, grasping for what little Avvar she knew. _“Just … just gentle there.”_

She felt him grin against her ear. “Just there?”

Despite herself, despite her _need_ for him to get on with it, she laughed, a breathless huff of mirth that disappeared into a ragged gasp as he _gently_ stroked his palm over that sensitive bud to guide his cock inside her. Her head fell back as he groaned into the curve of her throat, the vibration of his pleasure raising hers ever higher as she felt herself stretch to accommodate more than she’d ever taken before. He was so careful not to hurt her, somehow knowing she needed more _gentle_ than she had asked for. It had been years since she’d been so intimate with anyone, and Cullen was … so much more than she had imagined, even after tasting him on the riverbank.

He gulped in air against her neck, his own body trembling with the effort of taking his time, of making sure he didn’t cause her any harm with his own need. “Good?” was all he could say, a question, a statement, his grip on her language failing him as she shuddered at the delicious feeling they had both been denying and anticipating since that first day at the waterfall.

“Good,” was all she could gasp back to him, the links of the chain biting into her fingers as she pushed back against him. “More …”

Cullen’s low growl against her shoulder was all the real warning she got. Those strong hands that could be so tender gripped her hips, holding her in place as he drew back just far enough to let her feel every inch stroking in his retreat, only to thrust forward again, the glorious, spearing force knocking her forward, her head swaying between her arms as she hung from the chain that was her lifeline. Again he drew back, slow and subtle, reveling in the quiver of her limbs; again he thrust hard, drinking in the hoarse cry that erupted from her throat, the unmistakable sound of primal pleasure he could give her. Slow and gentle, fast and hard, he kept up that pace until she was writhing, pinned where he wanted her by the bruising grasp of his fingers at her hips, begging to be allowed to rise beyond the shimmering edge he had taken her to.

Perhaps he heard her, or perhaps he had lost patience with holding himself back, but the moment she called his name in her desperation, everything seemed to change. One hand left her hip, smoothing over her side, palm enveloping the tender swell of her breast with a delicate pinch to the nipple that sent sparks rippling along her nerves, drawing a sweet, mewling squeak from her lips. As he drew her up, her back to his chest, teeth nipping at her throat only to soothe the sharp sting with hot, wet kisses, the other hand slid over her sweat-slicked skin, tracking downward to press his palm to the firm plane between her hips, long fingers dancing with delicate confidence over her clit to give her the release she craved even as his rhythm quickened.

Yet it wasn’t the release she expected. Instead of the flash of white-heat she had grown accustomed to at her own fingertips, she felt it as a prickle - a teasing, trickling promise of more yet to come, her voice painting the air with breathless moans as something else seemed to build within her, spiraling into tighter coils with each insistent drive of him into her. She felt all at once empty and full, bursting with a new need to let go, clinging to the very edge with white knuckles as some pulsing tsunami gathered strength, urging him on. And all the while, his voice against her ear, growling, groaning, moaning her name - _her_ _name_ \- needing her to fall before he would let himself leap after her.

And there it was, the white-hot flame pouring down her spine in a lightning flash, spurring her to tightness that pulsed around the fierce invasion of her flesh, clinging where he retreated only once more before joining her with a loud cry that might almost have been a wolf’s howl. Wrapped up in sensation, she fell forward, hanging from the cuffs that kept her from sprawling entirely, reveling in his weight against her back, the kneading hands that worked over her body, draining every drop of blissful ecstasy from this astonishing moment. This moment that was the first of so many more to come.

She didn’t even realize she was whimpering in the aftermath, a part of her feeling utterly blown away by the sheer primal force of being claimed, quieted only by the gentle _shh_ of his voice against her ear as he drew himself up to take his own weight, lifting her with him. Grey eyes opened to gaze up at the rafters above them as she felt the chains pried from her fingers, unhooked from the cuffs about her wrists. The cool touch of the air on her sweat-slick skin as the cuffs themselves came off, tossed aside with an easy motion. Her hands rose of their own accord, fingers twisting into his hair as he gathered her close into his arms, stroking over the corded line of the forearm that banded across her stomach.

A soft laugh escaped her heaving chest as he twisted to drop them down onto the rumpled furs with a thump, thrilling to the sound of his quiet laughter mingling with her own. Smiling lips found hers, tender, sweeter, sharing something that was not merely want or lust in swift touches of mouth to mouth, mouth to flushed cheek, a something that warmed her from the inside without expectation of anything given in return. Her fingers skimmed along his arm as he leaned over her, the numbness in her wrists slowly fading into a warming tingle as the blood rushed back to her hands. The pad of her thumb brushed the scar on his lip. One day, he would have to tell her how he got that. But for now …

“Yours,” she whispered, gazing into those intoxicating eyes that saw every part of her and never flinched.

Cullen touched a light kiss to her nose, trailing his own fingertips over the smooth sheen of her side. “Mine,” he agreed, nuzzling a slower kiss to her swollen lips as she twisted into the cradle of his arms. “By dawn, no man will ever know you as I do, _mitt hjärta_.”

Rory felt her lips broaden into a wide grin at the unspoken promise of the night ahead. Long winter nights weren’t going to be boring, that was for sure. Dawn could wait. She was going to _earn_ her place here … starting with him.


End file.
